


A Knife and a Thank You

by Sparrowhawkshadow



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Between the Scenes, Discrimination, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mercenaries, Murder, Other, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Racism, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrowhawkshadow/pseuds/Sparrowhawkshadow
Summary: ~Lia just wanted to return a knife.~
Relationships: Fenris & Lia
Kudos: 2





	A Knife and a Thank You

**A Knife and a Thank You**

~~~

It takes her a week to work up the nerve to do it – never mind decide that she does want to – and then another week and some to decide how to go about it.

Lia can hardly just… send a servant ahead to ask for an invitation? The man is a mercenary, he‘ll hardly be home at a … decent time, and besides – she was fairly out of it, out there in the ruin, but she got enough from the woman who looks like a pirate mock-crooning at him to realise that … maybe sending an elven servant won‘t be well received. And no matter how wealthy father is – elves are the only ones that are willing to serve an elf – not even if the elf has as much money, or more, than many old noble families in Hightown, and oftentimes, not even the elves want to serve an elf.

Finally, she just … snaps. She‘s been on the Hightown markets, shopping for father – because he doesn‘t want to let her out of his sight now, which makes her very much determined to go out on her own even if she wouldn‘t dare otherwise – and he‘s agreed that, yes, the Hightown Markets are probably the least dangerous during the daylights.

Lia wisely doesn‘t mention the absurdity of that to father, seeing as Kelder was a noble and that magistrate now hates her family just because father wouldn‘t let her get murdered and quietly disappear. Thinking about it later – she realised that that‘s what would have happened, even if she had made it out of the ruin. Even if an elf‘s testimony has no weight in the courts at all, and certainly not against a magistrate such as Vanard, who sits on the City Council.

She still pities Kelder, but – it had been her or him, and she hadn‘t seen that, even as the mercenaries had, knowing those sorts of people better. She‘s realised since that father maybe had kept her wrapped up in a bubble of wealth and comfort many elves never got. She‘s sure the mercenary who handed her his knife and told her to die or kill hasn‘t had that sort of life. She remembers the unhappy twist of his mouth and the hot fury in his eyes as he argued for Kelder‘s death, and the pity in his voice as he told her to run.

She thinks of this all the while she‘s wandering the markets idly – after those days like the void itself in the ruin, salves and odours and rouges imported from Val Royaux seem frilly and nonsensical – and she finally decides on a book on something political that she has no idea whether she‘ll read, but it looks thick and tedious enough that it might keep her mind busy. The merchant – an elf too – keeps glaring at her, so she buys it before she gets accused of stealing. The other thing she buys are two apple tarts. One is to test - and she eats it sitting high on the walls, out of the sight of curious eyes but for a bored guard who doesn‘t even bother shooing her away, and that‘s been happening more and more. Because she once or twice saw the shadow of a tall woman with gleaming copper hair just out of the corner of her eye during the first few days she came here, and despite everthing she can still remember that gleaming hair because it seemed so lively out in all the dirt in the desert. So now she has a rising suspicion why that might be, that she‘s suddenly invisible to the Guard when they used to yell at her for cluttering up the stairs or the parapets of the wall in the Hightown markets even when she was out of the way.

The knife has been heavy under her chemise all the time, every time someone glared at her or ran into her, and she wants it gone, because every time she sees a sneering face she thinks of the knife, and that‘s surely not something she should be thinking of.

The second one, she takes to the mansion, because Maker forbid she learn to cook herself when they have more than enough money that she doesn‘t have to act like a servant – father says – and because she saw the mercenary eating apples out of his own pack once or twice on the way back, and the pirate-looking woman, Bella she is called, told her with a wink that he likes them.

Maybe that was a joke, but if she has to pick one fruit, apples look like a reasonable choice that can‘t go wrong much.

When he does open the door, she‘s about ready to walk away, half determined to console herself with the second, still warm pie, and startles something bad, especially because she almost doesn‘t recognise him.

~

The elf who stands in the doorway is wrapped in a loose bathrobe – black, like the rest of his clothes, but silky expensive looking cloth with a gold trim that would make father‘s eyes tear up with longing, and Lia‘s certain she‘s never seen this expensive a fabric on an elf, not even on the servants the Royan merchants sometimes have as scribes, the haughty ones with the masks who think they‘re better than her just because she isn‘t serving some noble who‘s proud of oppressing her people for _centuries_.

The robe also looks dishevelled, the heavy natural silk creased and very much slept in, the broad sash around the chest slipping – but the man wearing it looks very much awake, tense as a startled alley cat as he stares at her out of hard green eyes from under his hair. It‘s the hair that finally gives him away – it looks like dandelion fluff, as silky as his robe and standing in all direction but a pure silver at odds with his young – youngish – brown face. Lia has no idea how old he actually is.

"You", he says, in a rough, gravelly voice that sounds like he‘s just woken up or gargled cheap Kirkwall brandy, the sort they brew in backalley Lowtown, the sort that turns you blind. Lia‘s not sure which. He does smell slightly of stale spirits, but he doesn‘t seem drunk, or even hungover. Just … annoyed.

This doesn‘t seem like such a great idea now.

A part of her wants to shrink into herself – but she quashes that part with a fury she‘s not sure where it‘s coming from. She‘s acting _stupid_ if she thinks this man will actually hurt her, except for her poor little feelings if he doesn‘t want to be woken up at what looks like the crack of dawn, for him. Maybe he was out late soldiering, maybe drinking, Lia doesn‘t _care_ – he gave her a knife, he saved her _life_ . She‘s not going to be afraid of him _now_.

Maybe he didn‘t want some poor little damsel in distress come running after him to admire his heroism, but he gave her a knife so that‘s just too bad, she decides, as she‘s staring back at him. Come to think of, he does look – hungover, even if he hides it well. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he does look slightly grey under his olive skin. His stare feels like he‘s trying to read her thoughts – maybe he can, she‘s still not sure whether he‘s actually a mage or not with that weird blue glow around him in the ruins and that huge sword that‘s now nowhere in sight – which is strange, she never saw him without it even that one evening in the desert when they were all camping and he just sat on his bedroll, sword laid out next to him and munching mystery stew. That‘s apparently a thing with mercenaries and Lia didn‘t ask what was in it, but it was surprisingly good even if only, as Bella told her with a wink, the strange Warden mage with the feathers made it and he apparently can make food out of dirt.

She hopes Bella wasn‘t literal, but she didn‘t dare ask. The Warden scares her, anyway, with his intensity – because something in him feels like Kelder, that utter conviction when he narrows copper eyes at someone he doesn‘t agree with even if that isn‘t her sends chills down her spine. She feels ungrateful, because they did end the Blight in Fereldan, but she‘s still frightened – even if she‘s angry at herself for it. For being silly, but. Sometimes not knowing is better.

And sometimes it isn‘t.

Like now. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin – it‘s one of the things that made Kelder all the more angry at her, but it made the pain hurt less, somehow, even now. She knows the elf warrior will probably see how her lip is trembling and that her fingers are clenching, but it‘s the best she‘s got – and somehow she doesn‘t think he‘s someone who disapproves of what her father calls _attitude_ as he stares at her in the morning sun, carefully not squinting so hard that his eyes are visibly starting to tear up.

"I came to return the knife", she says. "And I wanted to thank you", she adds, belatedly remembering the apple tart that‘s now slightly squashed in its wrap, heat and moisture leaking around her fingers where she‘s clutching it in a death grip. Its presence had flewn right out of her head for a moment. "Thank you."

He stares some more. His eyes are moss green, and he blinks once, looks down at the apple tart, eyes flitting back back up, surprised – looking skittish, she thinks, before they narrow on her, turning suspicious. She does her best to hold his sharp stare and project earnest gratefullness. She‘s not quite sure she succeeds, and feels like she‘s mostly just looking stubborn, she can feel her lower lip starting to stick out and stops herself from chewing on it.

She survived Kelder. Kelder, with his soft words and greedy eyes, and cruel hands, who told her she was nothing. The elf warrior gave her a knife, and told her to kill any guard who stopped her from getting to her father, more sympathy in his eyes than she‘s seen from any of the nicely-spoken people who sneer at her in the markets.

She‘s not sure whether he sees something on her face - she hopes not – or whether he just gives up resisting in the face of stubbornness, which seems unlikely too. He doesn‘t seem like someone who gives up, but maybe is just as stubborn.

"Do come in", he says, in a curt tone that says _or go of_ _f_ _and die, I couldn‘t care less_ , and he just … turns swiftly on the pad of his foot and walks away into a dark corridor laid lavishly in black and green stone that‘s dusty enough to see the prints of his bare feet in. He‘s swiping up a heavy greatsword that‘s leaning against the wall as he does so. Oh, that‘s where it went. The blade is blank, and clean now, but she does recognise the dark finis and the etched runes running down the fuller.

She remembers them covered in spider ichor and dark gore from the undead the first time she saw him, but the sword had the same fine edge it has now, like the knife he gave her and that‘s now resting safely against her torso – wrapped in leather because she cut herself accidentally, twice.

She smiles, as soon as his back is turned, because she knows for a fact that he would care if she died – he laid the proof of it right into her hand. That‘s why she‘s here after all.

"Thank you", she says, in her best polite manners – father would be proud – and steps into the dark hallway, closing the heavy door behind her.

~~~

  
  



End file.
